In the storm-tossedChileansealives
the rosy conger,giant eelof snowy flesh.And in
Chileanstewpots,along the coast,was born the chowder,thick and
succulent,a boon to man.You bring the conger, skinned,to the
kitchen(its mottled skin slips offlike a glove,leaving thegrape
of the seaexposed to the world),naked,the tender
eelglistens,preparedto serve our appetites.Nowyou
takegarlic,first, caressthat preciousivory,smellits
irate fragrance,thenblend the minced garlicwith onionand
tomatountil the onionis the color of gold.Meanwhile steamour
regalocean prawns,and whenthey aretender,when the savor
isset in a saucecombining the liquorsof the oceanand the clear
waterreleased from the light of the onion,thenyou add the
eelthat it may be immersed in glory,that it may steep in the oilsof
the pot,shrink and be saturated.Now all that remains is todrop a
dollop of creaminto the concoction,a heavy rose,then
slowlydeliverthe treasure to the flame,until in the chowderare
warmedthe essences of Chile,and to the tablecome, newly wed,the
savorsof land and sea,that in this dishyou may know heaven.

Day-colored wine,night-colored wine,wine
with purple feetor wine with topaz blood,wine,starry childof
earth,wine, smoothas a golden sword,softas lascivious
velvet,wine, spiral-seashelledand full of
wonder,amorous,marine;never has one goblet contained you,one
song, one man,you are choral, gregarious,at the least, you must be
shared.At timesyou feed on mortalmemories;your wave carries
usfrom tomb to tomb,stonecutter of icy sepulchers,and we
weeptransitory tears;yourgloriousspring dressis
different,blood rises through the shoots,wind incites the
day,nothing is leftof your immutable soul.Winestirs the spring,
happinessbursts through the earth like a plant,walls crumble,and
rocky cliffs,chasms close,as song is born.A jug of wine, and thou
beside mein the wilderness,sang the ancient poet.Let the wine
pitcheradd to the kiss of love its own.

My darling, suddenlythe
line of your hipbecomes the brimming curveof the wine goblet,your
breast is the grape cluster,your nipples are the grapes,the gleam of
spirits lights your hair,and your navel is a chaste sealstamped on the
vessel of your belly,your love an inexhaustiblecascade of wine,light
that illuminates my senses,the earthly splendor of life.

But you are
more than love,the fiery kiss,the heat of fire,more than the wine of
life;you arethe community of man,translucency,chorus of
discipline,abundance of flowers.I like on the table,when we're
speaking,the light of a bottleof intelligent wine.Drink it,and
remember in everydrop of gold,in every topaz glass,in every purple
ladle,that autumn laboredto fill the vessel with wine;and in the
ritual of his office,let the simple man rememberto think of the soil and
of his duty,to propagate the canticle of the wine.

But,
poet, lethistory rest in its shroud;praise with your lyrethe grain
in its granaries:sing to the simple maize in the kitchen.

First, a
fine beardfluttered in the fieldabove the tender teethof the young
ear.Then the husks partedand fruitfulness burst its veilsof pale
papyrusthat grains of laughtermight fall upon the earth.To the
stone,in your journey,you returned.Not to the terrible stone,the
bloodytriangle of Mexican death,but to the grinding
stone,sacredstone of your kitchens.There, milk and
matter,strength-giving, nutritiouscornmeal pulp,you were worked and
pattedby the wondrous handsof dark-skinned women.

Among the market greens,a
bulletfrom the oceandepths,a swimmingprojectile,I saw
you,dead.

All around youwere lettuces,sea foamof the
earth,carrots,grapes,butof the oceantruth,of the
unknown,of theunfathomableshadow, thedepthsof the
sea,the abyss,only you had survived,a pitch-black,
varnishedwitnessto deepest night.

Only you, well-aimeddark
bulletfrom the abyss,mangled at one tip,but
constantlyreborn,at anchor in the current,winged
finswindmillingin the
swiftflightofthemarineshadow,a mourning arrow,dart
of the sea,olive, oily fish.

I saw you dead,a deceased kingof
my own ocean,greenassault, silversubmarine fir,seedof
seaquakes,nowonly dead remains,yetin all the
marketyourswas the onlypurposeful formamidthe bewildering
routof nature;amid the fragile greensyou werea solitary
ship,armedamong the vegetables,fin and prow black and oiled,as
if you were stillthe vessel of the wind,the one and
onlypureoceanmachine:unflawed, navigatingthe waters of
death.

The artichokeof delicate
hearterectin its battle-dress, buildsits minimal
cupola;keepsstarkin its scallop ofscales.Around
it,demoniac vegetablesbristle their thicknesses,devisetendrils
and belfries,the bulb's agitations;while under the subsoilthe
carrotsleeps sound in itsrusty mustaches.Runner and
filamentsbleach in the vineyards,whereon rise the vines.The sedulous
cabbagearranges its petticoats;oreganosweetens a world;and the
artichokedulcetly there in a gardenplot,armed for a skirmish,goes
proudin its pomegranateburnishes.Till, on a day,each by the
other,the artichoke movesto its dreamof a market placein the big
willowhoppers:a battle formation.Most warlikeof
defilades-with menin the market stalls,white shirtsin the
soup-greens,artichoke field marshals,close-order conclaves,commands,
detonations,and voices,a crashing of crate
staves.

AndMariacomedownwith her hampertomake
trialof an artichoke:she reflects, she examines,she candles them up
to the light like an egg,never flinching;she bargains,she tumbles
her prizein a market bagamong shoes and acabbage head,a
bottleof vinegar; is backin her kitchen.The artichoke drowns in a
pot.

So you have it:a vegetable, armed,a profession(call it
an artichoke)whose endis millennial.We taste of
thatsweetness,dismembering scale after scale.We eat of a halcyon
paste:it is green at the artichoke heart.

Out of lemon flowersloosedon the moonlight,
love'slashed and insatiableessences,sodden with fragrance,the
lemon tree's yellowemerges,the lemonsmove downfrom the tree's
planetarium

Delicate merchandise!The harbors are big with
it-bazaarsfor the light and thebarbarous gold.We openthe
halvesof a miracle,and a clotting of acidsbrimsinto the
starrydivisions:creation'soriginal juices,irreducible,
changeless,alive:so the freshness lives onin a lemon,in the
sweet-smelling house of the rind,the proportions, arcane and
acerb.

Cutting the lemonthe knifeleaves a little
cathedral:alcoves unguessed by the eyethat open acidulous glassto
the light; topazesriding the droplets,altars,aromatic
facades.

So, while the handholds the cut of the lemon,half a
worldon a trencher,the gold of the universewellsto your
touch:a cup yellowwith miracles,a breast and a nippleperfuming
the earth;a flashing made fruitage,the diminutive fire of a planet.

This saltin the saltcellarI once saw in the salt
mines.I knowyou won'tbelieve me,butit sings,salt sings,
the skinof the salt minessingswith a mouth smotheredby the
earth.I shivered in those solitudeswhen I heardthe voice ofthe
saltin the desert.Near Antofagastathe
nitrouspamparesounds:a brokenvoice,a
mournfulsong.

In its cavesthe salt moans, mountainof buried
light,translucent cathedral,crystal of the sea, oblivionof the
waves.

And then on every tablein the world,salt,we see your
piquantpowdersprinklingvital lightuponour food.
Preserverof the ancientholds of ships,discovereronthe high
seas,earliestsailorof the unknown, shiftingbyways of the
foam.Dust of the sea, in youthe tongue receives a kissfrom ocean
night:taste imparts to every seasoneddish your ocean essence;the
smallest,miniaturewave from the saltcellarreveals to usmore than
domestic whiteness;in it, we taste infinitude.